


Certain That I’m Yours

by modernminimalist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rimming, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25511692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modernminimalist/pseuds/modernminimalist
Summary: What I want, Malfoy, is your lovely perfect arse.Malfoy stills, his hand still held out between them, offering up the peach. His cheeks start to flush a lovely Gryffindor red and Harry realises what he’s done. He hasn’t thought those words, he’s said them, out loud. In a strange, predatory come-hither voice that he barely recognises as his own. To Malfoy. Who isn’t moving, or saying anything, or doing anything but staring at Harry.Shit. Shit shit shit.-Harry pines. Sexy times ensue!
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 86
Kudos: 935





	1. Malfoy Eats A Peach

“Was it really so terrible?” asks Hermione.

“Yes,” murmurs Harry, not bothering to lift his head from his hands. 

He has a vague awareness of Ron picking the food from his plate. That’s fine. 

“Come on mate, it can’t have been as bad as that time when-“

“Whatever you’re going to say.” Harry doesn’t even look at them. “Please do not.”

Hermione turns to Ron. “Remember that one who wore the t-shirt with Harry’s face on it?” 

“And that guy who didn’t speak throughout the whole meal…” 

“The one who brought his parents…”

“-licked his face instead of-“

“-insisted Harry speak parseltongue during-“

“THE ONE WITH THE SONG!”

“Oh my god I forgot about the _song_!”

Utter betrayal. That’s what this is. Harry lifts his head and scowls at his so-called friends. 

“How did it go again?” Ron asks.

“Oh, um…” Hermione starts clicking her fingers, face screwed up trying to remember, “…something, something man with a scar...”

“Yes!” Ron exclaims, and then with a hand over his heart, his face brooding, starts to sing, “I’ve lost my heart to the man with a scar, I’ll always find you wherever you aaaare...”

Harry groans and sinks his face back into his hands. The song. He glares at his friends through splayed fingers and sighs. Ron is singing fragmented parts of the song and making up parts he can’t remember as he serenades Hermione, who is red-faced and trying to catch a breath between fits of giggles. It hadn’t been that bad, Harry thought, although he should have known something was up when the guy had turned up to the restaurant carrying a lute. 

A fucking _lute_.

“Yes, alright, thank you, that’s quite enough.” Harry says eventually, lifting his head and trying his very best to look cross.

“S-sorry Harry…” Hermione says, wiping the tears from her face as Ron eventually stops singing.

She doesn’t look sorry though, Harry notes, neither of them bloody do. And then he feels his mouth tugging mutinously into an embarrassed grin which sets all three of them off again. His laugh only starts to falter when a familiar shock of white-blond hair enters his peripheral vision and moves swiftly behind his friends. Practically _glides_. Like a bloody swan. 

It’s not like it was unusual to see Draco Malfoy in the canteen, or anywhere in the ministry really - he worked there, just like Harry. In the beginning, they had even engaged in some pretty scintillating smalltalk like _did you see Shacklebolt’s memo_? _Puddlemere are having a good season_ and _it’s supposed to rain today_. It was Malfoy’s contract work with the DMLE Auror Training Programme that changed things between them. The trainees and new recruits absolutely adored him and his ‘cool-as-fuck’ inventions. They always seemed to try a bit harder whenever Malfoy was present for one of Harry’s training sessions and it was difficult not to get caught up in that. Harry supposed he should’ve been a bit annoyed or jealous about this, but he decided he just couldn’t be bothered when everyone was working so hard, and especially when Malfoy bumped their shoulders together with a soft smile. Sometimes he leant into Harry for a few seconds longer than was strictly necessary to look at his clipboard or murmur his thoughts about one of the trainees in Harry’s ear. Once he’d even corrected Harry’s duelling stance, practically manhandling him into a ‘position much more suiting to a Wizarding gentleman’, and Harry couldn’t help but feel pleased by the pinkish hue to Malfoy’s skin immediately afterwards. 

So if Harry found himself looking forward to those training sessions that Malfoy came along to, or found excuses to visit Malfoy in his laboratory, or just so happened to have lunch at the same time as Malfoy, then that was Harry’s business. 

Looking over at him now, Harry wonders if Malfoy has much dating trouble, if _he’s_ ever been sung to.

“We just need to find you someone who doesn’t think you’re the best thing since sliced bread,” says Hermione, snapping Harry’s attention back to the table.

“What do you mean?” Asks Harry, as Ron mutters _‘sliced bread?’_

“I mean, if you keep going on dates with people who are in awe of you, they’re bound to be bloody weird.”

“So what should he do then? Go out with someone who doesn’t like him?” Asks Ron.

Hermione nods sharply. “In a manner of speaking, yes.” 

“But everyone likes Harry.”

 _Not everyone_ , Harry thinks, trying desperately not to look at Malfoy, _not like that._

“I _mean_ ,” she says again, “someone who isn’t all swoony and…and…’oh be still my beating heart, the Chosen One is taking me for the Potter Special: a pint of wanky, pretentious local ale’. I’m surprised you even say yes to these people Harry, it’s like you’re deliberately going out of your way to have horrible dates.” Hermione chews her sandwich thoughtfully as she looks at him. “But that just seems a bit silly.”

_Mhm, mhm, yes, very silly._

Harry just nods.

“Someone who doesn’t like Harry…” says Ron, oblivious to the exchange that has occurred, “Someone like…”

Harry watches his friend search the cafeteria, as if this imaginary not-a-Potter-fan will pop up out of the ground from Ron’s sheer force of will. This enables Harry to get another good look at Malfoy, sitting alone, eating a peach and turning the page of his book. How he’s able to eat it so perfectly Harry doesn’t know, and feels his brows knit together with irritation as he watches Malfoy take another delicate bite. Harry’s peach was too ripe, too sweet, the juice dripping messily down his chin before he gave up and handed it over to Ron. 

“Someone like Malfoy, for instance,” Ron supplies.

“What?!” Harry scoffs, throwing an alarmed glance at the man in question before lowering his voice. “I can’t go out with _Malfoy!_ ”

Ron rolls his eyes. “No. Obviously not.”

The three of them glance quickly over at Malfoy who has apparently not heard them, thank Merlin. Although...he does appear to be holding himself a little more stiff and upright than usual, his spine ramrod straight. Hard to tell though, Malfoy has never exactly been the _laid back type._ Unbidden, an image of a messy-haired Malfoy, running a hand back through his hair flashes through his mind that Harry quickly blinks away.

“He’s not...terrible-looking now though,” Ron muses.

Hermione snorts.

“What?” Ron looks defensive before giving her a rather pointed look. “He _isn’t_. And _we_ have to think about these things, ‘mione. _We_ have to consider the attractiveness of men. For our friend, our _best friend_ who _fancies men_. I assume Harry would like to be with someone…y’know, _not unattractive_.”

Hermione shakes her head at Ron and turns her attention back to Harry. 

“I might actually have someone for you,” she says, “if you’re interested. He's ever so nice, a bit quiet but lovely when you get to know him, he’s cute, and he’s never seemed phased by the fact that you’re a bit famous.”

“Pfft, that’s what they want you to think,” replies Ron knowingly.

“Will’s not like that, if anything he seems empa-’

“Will? Not Boring Will from Magical Creatures?”

“He’s not boring, Ron, he’s just a bit qui-”

“He even made dragons seem boring ‘mione. _Dragons_. No, I cannot abide.” Ron waves a dismissive hand. “He doesn’t even like Quidditch. I’d rather Harry actually go out with Malfoy, even if he does support Puddlemere _._ ” 

Hermione points a finger at Ron. “You’re really pushing this Malfoy thing. Are you sure _you_ don’t want to go out with him?” 

“At least it wouldn’t be boring.” Ron shrugged. “Sure, I’d always worry he’d be plotting my murder and where to hide my body, but he wouldn’t be _so boring_ that I’d actively be _wishing for it._ ” 

Ignoring the discussion of poor Boring Will from Magical Creatures that erupts between his friends, Harry risks another furtive glance at Malfoy. 

He has, secretly and for quite some time, thought of Malfoy as _very_ ‘not unattractive’. He’s still slender but has filled out a bit since Hogwarts, particularly in the shoulders. And his hair isn’t slicked back severely anymore but cut into a more fashionable style with a slight quiff at the front. He’s still pale, but has enough colour in his face that makes his hair almost look white. Harry knows it’s got a little natural wave to it as well that he must spell into submission. He knows because one time he popped into Malfoy’s lab to find him all flustered and annoyed with what appeared to be an inanimate golden snitch. Pink-cheeked and hair ruffled, Malfoy hadn’t seen Harry standing by the door for a full glorious minute, Harry wondering what that lovely hair would feel like if he ran a hand through it, maybe tightening his fingers a little. Would Malfoy be into that? 

And the other not-unattractive thing about Malfoy, which Harry has also shared with no-one, is that he hardly ever wears wizard robes anymore: whenever Harry sees him he’s always wearing these... _shirts_. They must be tailored or something because they seem to fit him really, really well. Harry should get shirts like that. He’d never keep them as pristine and pressed as Malfoy does though. But that’s just Malfoy: pristine and pressed and buttoned-up. 

_Practically begging to be undone,_ Harry thinks.

Thoughts of Malfoy’s not-unattractiveness need to stay buried in the recesses of Harry’s mind though, along with the shoulder-bumps and the soft smiles and the coffee visits and that one time he made Malfoy laugh so hard it had made Harry’s heart soar. That was the day Harry realised his feelings were more-than-friendly and more-than-purely-physical, that seeing Malfoy, being around him, had become the best part of Harry’s day. It frustrated him that he couldn’t even remember what had been so funny in the first place, because afterwards he found he wanted to make Malfoy laugh like that all the time. He remembered the way Malfoy’s head had landed on his shoulder as he shook with laughter. Harry had wanted to bury his face in the crook of Malfoy’s neck, just nuzzle against the bare skin there and breathe him in forever. Malfoy had squeezed Harry’s bicep as he’d straightened up, lifting his head, meeting his eyes as his fingers ran down the full length of Harry’s arm, lingering on the pulse point of his wrist

“You’re an idiot, Harry.” The affection and fondness laced through those words felt as if Malfoy had meant something else. 

But then Malfoy was heading back to his lab as if nothing had happened, leaving Harry feeling oddly bereft with nothing but his stupid, sentimental little heart for company. 

Harry allows himself to watch Malfoy for a little longer. He’s still working on that bloody peach. Harry’s eyes follow the stone fruit, held between thumb and forefinger, to a set of perfect white teeth biting into soft juicy flesh. It’s a bit annoying really. 

_How long does it take one man to eat a fucking peach?_

As if hearing his thoughts, Malfoy looks up directly at him.

“I’ve got to go,” he says quickly, more to his now mostly empty plate – thanks to Ron – than his friends.

“Harry…?” Asks Hermione, her features pulling into one of concern, “About before, I hope we didn’t offend –“

“Nah!” he exclaims, a bit too loudly as he pushes his chair back, “I just remembered…I’ve got…paperwork and…things, important Auror things…deadline…”

He waves his hand vaguely in a gesture that might have been the swish-and-flick of _wingardium leviosa_ and Hermione nods at him.

“Alright Harry. Let me know about Will, okay?” He knows she’s trying to sound casual, but there's an undercurrent of something else in the way she speaks to him. “When you’ve figured out what you want.”

***

The next day, there are more peaches in the canteen. Harry is in the lunch queue holding a tray that consists of a plate of greyish melange with orange bits that he suspects is supposed to be the ‘Shepherd’s Pie’ listed on the lunch board. He spots the wire basket of peaches near the till and scowls. He’s already noticed Malfoy several people behind him in the queue, empty tray in hand, eyeing up the melange on offer with a wrinkled nose. Without thinking about it, Harry gives his hand a quick flourish and wandlessly vanishes the peaches. He pays for his food, noting with smug satisfaction that nobody has noticed they’re gone and takes a seat by himself.

When it’s Malfoy’s turn to pay for his food, Harry’s ears prick up at the sound of his laugh. It’s unexpected, gravelly and flirtatious, and Harry peers over to see that a good-looking wizard has come out of the kitchen to speak to him. He’s practically _preening_ as Malfoy leans forward just enough to draw Harry’s gaze to his arse. 

“Fuck,” says Harry, thinking _of course that would have to be perfect too._

He already had the shirts to contend with, and that...oddly adorable wave to Malfoy’s hair that he’s daydreamed about more than once. But now there was this: a perfect, high, unusually rounded fucking _peachy_ arse clad in form-fitting charcoal trousers that certainly left nothing to the imagination (which needn’t have mattered, as Harry’s imagination did perfectly fine on it’s own thank you very much). Malfoy is gesturing to the empty fruit basket and murmuring something Harry couldn’t make out and then the other man winks at him before scurrying off, returning moments later with an armful of peaches and handing Malfoy the biggest, peachiest-looking peach in the fucking pile. 

Harry doesn’t need to stay here for this. He’s mostly finished the Shepherds Pie which he suspects is the root cause of the uncomfortable gurgling occurring in his belly and he really ought to get stuck into writing up the case report for that...case. But he is entitled to an hour for lunch, and Hermione is always telling him to take proper breaks so he remains seated, watching Malfoy walk to a table of his own. All he’s got for lunch is that bloody peach. Malfoy meets his eye for a second and smirks before promptly ignoring him. 

Harry watches him eat the entire thing before heading back to his office. 

The peaches continue to show up in the canteen and Harry continues to vanish them. Still, Malfoy always finds a way of getting one. One time Harry even went into the kitchens to get rid of them at the source, under the pretence of wanting to thank the hardworking staff, and was promptly kicked out by the very same wizard who was fawning all over Malfoy a few days before. 

_He must have a secret stash_ , Harry thinks. _A secret stash just for Malfoy, who he obviously fancies! Trying to seduce him with fruit...what an absolute wanker._

So, Harry comes up with a plan. It’s early when he walks into the canteen and buys _all_ of the peaches. He tells the po-faced flirting-with-Malfoy-wizard they’re for the trainee Aurors who have a session with him today and could he please help Harry take them to the training rooms? The DMLE would be _exceptionally_ _grateful_ , he adds with his most charming, most winning smile. The wizard-who-needs-to-keep-his-hands-off-Malfoy flutters his eyelashes and looks down, blushes a little bit. 

_Victory!_

No more peaches, no more wizard tossing his affections about willy-nilly. 

“I can help with that, Sebastian.”

Harry isn’t sure how long Malfoy has been standing next to him, but with a little huff he suspects it was right before the wizard from the kitchen - _Sebastian, ugh, what a stupid fucking name_ \- started blushing. 

“Oh. You really don’t have to-“ Harry starts.

“Oh but I really must insist.” Malfoy cuts him off and his eyes are on Harry in an instant. “The peaches seem to have a way of just...disappearing lately, don’t they Sebastian?” 

Harry doesn’t even care that Malfoy seems to have caught him out because today Malfoy’s shirt is the periwinkle blue, which happens to be Harry’s favourite. It’s open at the collar and it’s doing something to Malfoy’s skin - Malfoy’s neck - that is frankly pornographic. Harry licks his lips, finding it difficult to look away from the expanse of pale throat. His trousers are the same charcoal grey colour as the other day, still fitting Malfoy like a dream and Harry has to will himself not to hook his fingers in the belt loops and yank him forward. 

“That’s okay, I can save you one, Draco.” Sebastian’s voice is dripping with a saccharine sweetness that irks Harry, and the over-familiarity of using Malfoy’s first name unsettles him further. 

“Thank you, that is very kind.” Malfoy turns his attention to Sebastian and offers the man a broad smile. “But Auror Potter specifically requested all of the peaches, and who are we to deny him what he wants.”

Malfoy bumps their shoulders together, the way he always does in the training sessions, as Sebastian disappears with a frown to gather the peaches. Malfoy hasn’t bumped _away,_ his arm is still pretty solidly pressed against Harry’s in a way that says...something. Maybe. Harry doesn’t know. Why hasn’t Malfoy pulled away? Should Harry? He feels like he ought to, if only for his sanity, if only to stop his heart fluttering in his chest like a trapped bird. Instead, Harry tilts the back of his hand to rest against Malfoy’s. The reaction is small: Malfoy stiffens, ever so slightly, and sucks in a breath before relaxing, his own hand pressing back against Harry’s. 

“Potter.” 

“Malfoy.”

“You’re here early.”

“So are you.”

“I meant in the canteen.”

“Oh.”

“I’m in the training session today.”

“Right. Of course.”

“Did you forget?” 

_Yes._ “Nope.”

“Have you been vanishing the peaches?”

Harry scoffs. “Have I _what?_ Why would someone do that?” Why indeed? Harry doesn’t have a clue why he did it in the first place, why he’s carried on doing it. “They must just be...really popular.” 

Something changes in Malfoy’s expression and Harry can see he’s trying very hard not to smile, trying not to _laugh_. 

“You’re an idiot, Harry.” 

Sebastian has returned levitating eleven - fucking _eleven_ \- boxes of peaches. 

Harry lets out a very dramatic sigh. “So it would seem.” 

Malfoy doesn’t help with the boxes at all. In fact, all he does is walk silently behind Harry all the way to the DMLE training rooms, with Sebastian trotting along happily at his side, chattering away and floating the eleven boxes of peaches that Harry is fairly certain he’s been overcharged for. 

Harry huffs and starts setting down the hovering boxes. He does his best to ignore the way Sebastian is still gratuitously fussing over Malfoy, suggestively asking him if he wants a _nicer_ peach, a _juicier_ peach, a peach more _akin to his liking_. 

“No, thank you.” Harry doesn’t ignore the way Malfoy’s tone has come out a little clipped. “What about you, Potter?”

“What about me?” Harry watches as Malfoy walks towards him, gestures to the nearest box and blinks innocently at him. 

“Don’t you want one?”

“He doesn’t even like them,” mutters Sebastian. 

A flash of annoyance crosses Malfoy’s face, as if to say _are you still here?_

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Malfoy offers up the peach in his hand, shifting slightly closer. “Don’t you _want_ a bite of my lovely perfect peach, Potter?”

The triple P’s are punctuated in a way that Harry thinks is meant to piss him off and not send tiny quivers of pleasure directly to his cock. 

_What I want, Malfoy, is your lovely perfect arse._

Malfoy stills, his hand still held out between them, offering up the peach. His cheeks start to flush a lovely Gryffindor red and Harry realises what he’s done. He hasn’t thought those words, he’s said them, out loud. In a strange, predatory come-hither voice that he barely recognises as his own. To Malfoy. Who isn’t moving, or saying anything, or doing anything but staring at Harry. 

_Shit. Shit shit shit._


	2. Potter’s On His Arse

_ Shit. Shit Shit Shit. _

Harry’s made it weird. 

He’s fucked up and made it weird between them and now Malfoy is never, ever going to speak to him again. He should just hex himself in the face right now. Or get Ron to obliviate him. But then Malfoy would need to be obliviated too. And Sebastian. Only that won’t work because then he’d have to explain to Ron exactly why he needed to obliviate his best mate, his best mates former nemesis and a random bloke that sells fruit (who’s still eyeing up Malfoy like a fucking snack).

Could he pretend it was a joke? “Ha! Didn’t mean it! Your arse is actually pretty rubbish and I definitely don’t fantasise about burying my face in it and tongue-fucking you into oblivion! Nope! Not. At. All.” 

No. He can’t pretend it’s a joke. 

Because…because Malfoy was  _ blushing _ . Which, yes,  _ probably _ means he’s mortified. And rightfully so. For himself, or for Harry. Or both. At least definitely embarrassed for Harry. Either way, he doesn’t want to embarrass Malfoy further, if that’s the case. 

However. An alternative assessment of the situation (re: the insanely gorgeous pinkness of Malfoy’s cheeks that Harry just wants to  _ touchtouchtouch _ ) could be that maybe, possibly, unfathomably...he’s into the fact that Harry likes his arse. Correction -  _ wants _ his arse. Oh no, this wasn’t just simple, objective arse-appreciation here. Harry had been  _ very clear _ about  _ wanting _ it. And that was something that had made Malfoy  _ blush _ . 

Interesting. 

“Auror Potter.” Malfoy’s mouth curves up into a devious little smirk, his voice soft and rumbly. “I’m unclear on why you think that is acceptable or appropriate to say to me here.” He pauses, looking thoughtful before fixing Harry with a very measured look. “That sort of admission clearly ought to be discussed in  _ private _ .”

In private. 

In private?

In private…

Malfoy wants to discuss things. In private. With Harry. He wants to be in private with Harry. Discussing things. Mm.

Or, he could just want to hex Harry behind a closed door for being such an obnoxious twat. One of the two.

_ Quite disparate possibilities there then _ , Harry thinks, already reaching out to gently wrap his fingers around Malfoy’s wrist. With his free hand, Harry plucks the peach free and tosses it into the nearest box, ignoring the indignant squeak from Sebastian. He tugs on Malfoy’s wrist, pleased (and very relieved) when he moves closer without protest, more so when the fingertips of his other hand rest lightly on Harry’s stomach, ghosting over the thin fabric of his t-shirt and toying with the hem. 

“Forgive me,” says Harry, trying to keep his voice steady, “I’d be more than happy to discuss it with you. In private.”

“Hm.” Malfoy gives Harry’s belly a distracting little flick and twists his captured wrist seeker-fast to grab Harry’s instead, yanking him forward until they’re not quite pressed together. Malfoy tilts his head, leans in close. His lips brush against Harry’s skin, fluttery-soft against his neck, the hinge of his jaw, his ear and  _ fuck _ , Malfoy can’t possibly have just snatched up Harry’s earlobe between his teeth and given a tentative nip. Harry swallows down a rather undignified noise that threatens to bubble up from his throat. Malfoy’s voice is barely audible above a whisper. “ _ See that you do _ .”

And Harry is half a heartbeat away from vanishing  _ Sebastian _ out of the room because even as Malfoy pulls away he’s still smirking which  _ shouldn’t _ make him hard but  _ does _ when there’s suddenly a loud clamour of familiar voices. 

“POTTAAAHH!” 

“Ooh Draco’s here! YESSS!”

“D’you think he’s brought us something new?”

“What’s with all the fuckin’ peaches?”

***

It’s the most unbearably long training session of Harry’s life.

Malfoy  _ has _ brought them something new. It’s a metal and glass sphere, inspired by the golden snitch and the remembrall, that flies around firing fairly harmless stinging hexes, remembering how many you can shield (and, conversely, how many you can’t). 

Malfoy grins wolfishly. “I’ll need a volunteer.”

Every hand shoots up but Harry already knows Malfoy will pick him whether he puts his hand up or not, so he simply strides forward ahead of the grumbling trainees. 

They’d sprung apart when the trainees arrived, Malfoy disappointingly able to quickly pull his features into an impassive expression. Harry hadn’t fared as well and had rolled his eyes to the ceiling before letting out a very frustrated huff. Sebastian hadn’t hung about, thank Merlin, though he’d managed to throw a particularly venomous glare Harry’s way before disappearing. 

Harry closes the distance between them, stands a little closer than strictly necessary to the man who had gotten deliciously intimate with his earlobe. He hadn’t ever given much thought to the attractiveness of earlobes until today. 

_ Malfoy’s got lovely earlobes, definitely biteable.  _

“Where do you want me?” Harry asks, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Where you are is fine.” Malfoy’s eyes drop to Harry’s mouth and back up again. “For now.”

Concentrate. Harry should really concentrate on the matter at hand. And not Malfoy’s actual hands, which are a beautiful combination of masculine and elegant. He should very much concentrate on whatever is in the small velvet pouch that Malfoy is holding in his hands and not what those hands felt gripping his wrist, what they might feel like on Harry’s shoulders, back, arse, cock. Fisted in Harry’s hair, tightening a bit, while Harry sucks him off. 

Malfoy opens up the pouch and drops the contents into Harry’s hand. It looks like a marble, no bigger than the tip of Harry’s thumb, but seconds after it touches his palm it starts to expand. It stops when it reaches the size of an apple and gold and scarlet wisps of smoke converge around each other inside the glass sphere. It’s mesmerising to watch, and Harry holds it up to his face. 

“To activate the device, state your full name.” Malfoy is all cool professionalism, and Harry can’t help himself. 

He grins. “Say please.”

Grey eyes flash to his. 

“Go on, say it.” It’s a sharp command, enough to make Malfoy’s breath hitch. “ _ Say  _ it, Malf-.”

Fingertips land on Harry’s lips, silencing him. “I believe I said  _ your _ name.” Malfoy drops his hand but still murmurs a soft  _ please _ that only Harry can hear. 

Somehow, Harry remembers what his own name is and after he calls it out he watches as the glass sphere slowly starts to rotate in his palm before rising into the air.

Malfoy backs away, pinning Harry with a dangerously sweet smile. “Good luck, you arrogant prick.”

“How long until it-ARGH! FUCK!”

The first stinging hex hits him squarely in the shoulder, knocking him off balance to land flat on his back. He wrenches his eyes from Malfoy’s retreating form as the trainees burst out laughing. 

_ “PROTEGO!”  _

He barely gets the shield up, but it’s strong and protects from the next four hits while he’s able to flip back to his feet to whoops and cheers from the trainees. Malfoy’s sphere is utterly relentless: it puts Harry through his paces for three solid minutes. There’s the odd moment where he thinks he’s found a pattern to the hits but he’s quickly proved wrong again and again and again. When it’s over, Harry is panting harder than he’d like to be and reminds himself to take up some extra running. 

Malfoy’s a little smug as he summons the glass sphere into his hand. “Thank you for your assistance, Auror Potter. That was a very impressive performance.” He waves his wand around the sphere casting  _ revelio _ . “87%. Not bad.”

“For an arrogant prick?” Harry laughs, lifting his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and definitely not missing Malfoy glance down at his bare, muscled abdomen, the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it swipe of a tongue across an upper lip. 

_ Thank you interdepartmental Quidditch league!  _

Malfoy turns his attention to the trainees, ignoring Harry. “Now for the real fun, which of you think you can beat him?” The trainees jump up and down, eager to have a go. “As a bonus incentive, whoever can beat Potter  _ and _ get the top score gets to name the ball.”

Excited murmurs come from the group and suggestions are immediately tossed out. 

“Hexball!”

“Potterball!”

“More like Potters-on-his-arseball!”

A chorus of laughter at that one. The cheeky little shits.

But Harry’s laughing too and watches with a little swell of pride as Malfoy explains what to do. They all listen to him with rapt attention, nodding quietly and standing patiently, waiting for their turn. 

They’re brilliant, of course, determined as they walk out to the training floor. Malfoy is quick to admonish any booing and they all soon start cheering for one another, clapping loudly as each one finishes. Harry jogs up and down the sidelines, observing how each of them performs. He’ll debrief them after he combs through the session in his pensieve, but for now he’s content to see how they fare with the new device. He doesn’t want to distract them. 

The noise and laughter and excitement is enough to draw the attention of a few Aurors working from their offices in DMLE into the training room, curious as to what’s happening. Even Ron’s there, interest piqued. The trouble is they  _ all _ want a go when they work out what Malfoy’s device is, want to have a go at beating Harry. Even the trainees are demanding a second round. 

“At this rate we’ll be here past lunch,” murmurs Harry, coming to stand next to Malfoy. 

“Looks that way.” 

“I’ll get some sandwiches in,” offers Harry, nudging Malfoy with his elbow, “you alright to hold down the fort?”

“Of course.” Malfoy glances at him. “Aren’t you going to this meeting with Shacklebolt later?” 

“Fuck, I forgot about that.” Harry groans. “Please tell me you’ll be there too.” 

Malfoy nods, scribbles something down in his notebook. “You might want to consider a shower though Potter, you’re still a sweaty mess.”

Harry raises his eyebrows and leans in close so that only Malfoy can hear him. “I rather think you like me as a sweaty mess.” 

“Only if I’m the one making you a sweaty mess,” Malfoy murmurs back.

“You’re a fucking menace,” Harry breathes out, but Malfoy just smirks at him.

In the shower, finally alone with his thoughts, it doesn’t take much for Harry to make himself hard. Just one-two-three long strokes while his other hand presses against the tile, water cascading down his back.  _ You should not be doing this _ , he thinks, but he needs to take the edge off, he’s wound up so tight. And he wants to go slow, at first, wants to draw it out as he pictures Malfoy back in the training rooms. Is he thinking about Harry? Is he thinking about Harry thinking about  _ him _ ? The thought of seeing the look on Malfoy’s face, wondering about what Harry’s been up to makes him pick up the pace, circle a thumb around the head, over the slit. He’s fucking into his fist, breathing hard as he imagines Malfoy’s cock in his mouth, hitting the back of his throat the way Harry likes it sometimes and a fresh flood of arousal hits him. He wonders what kind of noises Malfoy would make as Harry took him deep, how he’d taste as he comes, if he’d say Harry’s name. When his orgasm hits, he feels a bit dizzy with it for a moment, breathing in short, sharp bursts as he comes all over the shower tiles. The  _ ministry _ shower tiles. He laughs a little at that, watching his spunk swirl in the water around his feet and down the drain. He’s never wanked in here before, didn’t even pause to see if he was totally alone in the bathroom. Ah well. 


	3. The Space Between (Will I Hold You Again?)

If Harry had thought the training session was unbearable, then the rest of the afternoon is pure torture. Of course, it’s all Ron’s fault. 

Harry returns to the training room with his arms full of sandwiches and dressed in fitted jeans with a soft, dark green jumper. It’s cashmere, and probably one of the nicest things he owns. He actually feels quite fancy in it. The green also happens to make his eyes pop. Or something. That’s what Hermione says anyway.

He’s barely made it through the door when the trainees descend upon him like an angry horde of feral cats, quickly relieving him of all the sandwiches. Malfoy merely looks on, amused and unhelpful as ever as Harry wanders over to him. 

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.” Grey eyes rake over Harry’s body. “Nice jumper.”

“I’m glad it meets the Draco Malfoy seal of approval.”

Malfoy cocks his head. “Did you wear it with me in mind then?”

“What?” Harry chokes out. “W-why do you say that?” 

“ _Slytherin_ green?”

“It’s just a jumper. It was the first one I grabbed.” Harry shrugs. “Didn’t even realise it was green until you pointed it out.” Merlin, he hates how pathetic his lie sounds.

“You didn’t realise it was green,” Malfoy echoes dubiously, half-smiling at Harry. “I rather think that shower has addled your brain, Potter.”

You’ve _addled my brain, you beautiful wanker._

“You could say that,” murmurs Harry, not explicitly saying _‘hey I just wanked fantasising about sucking you off’_ but it’s definitely an admission of _something_. He feels a thrilling little thrum of pleasure in the pit of his belly when Malfoy’s ears turn pink, sees the corners of his mouth turn up a little.

“I have the final results from the session,” says Malfoy, clearing his throat and looking a bit flustered as he flips through his notebook. He finds a page, rips it out and hands it to Harry. “For when you debrief, if you want to use them. I’ve already broken the news that nobody beat you.”

“Explains why I didn’t get a single bloody thank you for the sandwiches.” Harry takes the piece of paper, trying not to hang on to Malfoy when their fingers brush. “Thanks.” Malfoy hasn’t just written their numbers down, he’s annotated his thoughts around each entry like _favours right side_ and _strong shield but slow to cast_. “This is brilliant Malfoy, really, thank you.” 

“It’s fine,” he replies, waving it off like it’s nothing, even says _think nothing of it, Potter._

“Come on,” says Harry, “let’s kick ‘em out and get to this meeting before the senior Aurors get their hands on the entirety of the complimentary buffet.” 

Malfoy snorts. “Or Weasley. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one man consume so many mini sausage rolls in one sitting.” He frowns a little. “It was a very odd mix of fascinating and horrifying to watch to be honest.”

They corral the trainees and follow them out of the room, listening to their inane chatter about weekend plans and lamenting the fact that none of them will be the one to name the ‘Draco Sphere’. 

“It’s got quite a nice ring to it actually,” says Harry, as they branch off down a separate corridor, finding themselves alone walking side-by-side.

“I can’t name it after _myself_ , Potter.” They turn another corner. “That would be horrifically self-indulgent.”

“ _You_ didn’t name it. _They_ did, and they adore you.” Harry nudges him a bit. “Seems fair to me.”

“Maybe,” says Malfoy.

His voice is so soft and unsure and fucking vulnerable that as they round another corner Harry almost - almost - stops him in the corridor to tell him just how _much_ he’s adored --

“Fucking _hell_ , Weasley!” 

Harry’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t immediately register what’s happened and has, in fact, carried on walking. When he spins on his heel he sees Ron looking almost as red as his hair, and Malfoy’s shirt is soaked through. 

“I’m so, _so_ sorry Malfoy,” says Ron, who is unsuccessfully trying to wipe at Malfoy’s shirt with a flimsy paper napkin while shooting Harry looks that say _please fucking help me you useless tosser._

Harry _is_ useless. Harry is frozen in place and very obviously ogling Malfoy’s chest which is now very visible through his clingy, sopping wet periwinkle blue shirt. He’s thankfully pulled from his sex-pest-stupor by the sounds of heated squabbling. 

“-use a cleaning charm?”

“This is Italian cotton, Weasley. From _Milan_.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me? Just admit you’re shit at cleaning charms.”

“Fuck off. Ugh, why is it _sticky_?”

“I think it’s the caramel.”

“Why on earth have you got _caramel_ in your _coffee_?”

“It’s a caramel macchiato.”

“Knowing what it’s called doesn’t make it any less disgusting.” Malfoy sighs and looks slightly anxious. “Fuck I haven’t got time to get to the lab and change and I’m - I’m supposed to be presenting the...” His voice trails off as he looks down at himself, as if staring at the offending stains will somehow vanish them. 

“It’s okay, Malfoy,” says Harry, stepping forward. “Look, my office is really close by. I’ve probably got something you can wear.” 

Malfoy just nods at Harry to lead the way, leaving Ron in their wake.

“I really am sorry!” shouts Ron, and to Harry’s relief he looks sorry too. 

Harry is desperately trying to look anywhere that isn’t Malfoy. He’s already had an eyeful of a nipple that he wants to clamp his mouth over but he needs to not think about that right now. Aside from the fact that he’s not sure he’s going to be able to concentrate in this meeting with images of a wet, half-naked Malfoy in his brain, he needs to be _kind_ and _helpful_ and _chivalrous_ and to _immediately_ _get Malfoy out of those wet things_. 

_I am going to kill Ron Weasley_ , Harry thinks, clenching his jaw. 

He’s relieved when they arrive at his office and he has something utterly benign to concentrate on like removing the protective wards from the door before he unlocks it. 

When Malfoy gives him a curious glance Harry looks a bit sheepish. “Some of the trainees like to prank me, alright?”

Malfoy bursts out laughing and can’t seem to stop so Harry has to bodily shove him inside, closing the door behind both of them. He tries very hard to look annoyed at being laughed at, but Harry’s chest is thrum-thrum-thrumming at the sound. 

“Yeah, yeah. It’s hilarious.” Harry rolls his eyes and gestures to a changing area that’s hidden around a little nook in the corner. “It’s private. I can’t imagine you’ll want to wear my Auror robes but I’ve got some jumpers and possibly some shirts. Not as nice as any of yours obviously.” In order to stop his eyes dropping to Malfoy’s chest again he turns away and pretends to look thoroughly engrossed in tidying his desk which is, thankfully, a bloody shit tip. 

“So who do you think it is?” Malfoy calls out, sounding amused. 

“What?” Harry briefly looks back over his shoulder but Malfoy has disappeared into the nook. 

“That pranks you.” 

“Oh I bloody well know exactly who it is,” Harry huffs. “It’s Akilah and Bertram.”

“Akilah and - Bertram? _Bertie?_ ”

“I know. But honestly they’re inseparable now they’re seeing each other.”

“ _Seeing_ each other?” Says Malfoy, scandalised. “Akilah and little Bertie Beauchamp? I don’t believe it!” 

“Believe it,” laughs Harry, leaning against his desk, “I saw them on a date together. It was quite sweet actually.”

Harry can hear Malfoy muttering ‘well I never’ and chuckling to himself from the nook. The sound lifts some of the tension he’d been feeling, being a bit gossipy like this. It’s quite fun, and Harry sort of wants to sack off this meeting with Shacklebolt altogether and just hang out with Malfoy. Alone.

_In private._

_I’d be more than happy to discuss this with you in private._

_See that you do._

Harry glances over at the nook, idly touching his earlobe. Malfoy isn’t making a peep but Harry can hear rustling sounds. What is he doing in there? Is he just trying stuff on? Seeing how he looks in Harry’s clothes? And Malfoy will have taken his shirt off. Could be shirtless _right now_ in fact as he rifles through Harry’s things. Harry squirms a bit as he thinks about a swath of pale, touchable skin, not even five feet away. 

“H-how you getting on Malfoy?” Harry takes a tentative step towards the nook. 

“Fine.” Malfoy’s voice comes out a little strained and uncertain. 

_Well that can’t be good._

“Can I come in?” 

Harry doesn’t know why he asks it, when Malfoy could just step _out_ , but he’s surprised when he hears a soft ‘okay’ and so he darts towards the nook, peering inside. 

The first thing he sees are Malfoy’s wide eyes reflected back at him in the medium-sized mirror that’s spelled onto the wall. He almost looks like he’s been caught out, even though he invited Harry _in_. Maybe it’s the thought that this is the first time today that they’re really (finally) alone together, and in such close proximity too. They’re so close that if Harry reaches out he could touch him. Maybe it’s that. Or maybe it’s the fact that the item of clothing that Malfoy has chosen to borrow is Harry’s favourite red jumper. Well, it's more a deep burgundy. And a bit on the thin side from so much washing because Harry wears it so often. But it is amazingly soft. And Malfoy’s wearing it. 

It’s not even clean really. Well, it’s clean- _ish_ \- Harry had just worn it into work this morning. 

Which means Malfoy’ll be sat in the meeting practically smelling like Harry and fucking hell he loves that thought so much more than Malfoy wearing anything else of his. It’ll be a bit like - Harry’s marked him, claimed him, or something. 

_For fuck’s sake you weirdo, it’s just a fucking jumper._

But then Harry’s imagining sinking his teeth into Malfoy’s perfect, pale skin, sucking and nibbling and licking that elegant neck and _really_ marking him. 

_Mine._

“You look so - it looks good. On you.” Harry can’t stop staring at Malfoy’s reflection. “You look good. Very, uh - Presentable.”

 _Presentable?_ He really should’ve just hexed himself in the face earlier. 

Malfoy’s lips quirk into an almost-smile. “I’m glad it meets the Potter seal of approval.” 

It’s probably meant to have come out like a joke, but Malfoy’s voice has come out in that rumbly-soft way again and Harry isn’t laughing, just moving closer to him. They’re close enough that if Harry takes one more step forward or Malfoy takes one back, there won’t be any space between them at all and it’s taking every ounce of self-control for Harry not to just _press into him_. 

Harry hasn’t said anything in response, has just kept staring. He flicks his gaze away and notices that the label in the neck of the jumper is sticking out. He reaches up and gently pushes it back down, tucks it inside. He knows he’s letting his fingers linger too long, but Malfoy is - he’s leaning into Harry’s delicate touch, turning his body to face him so Harry leaves his hand where it is and watches the rise and fall of Malfoy’s chest as pale hands come to rest on his hips, pulling him forward. 

Harry lifts his other hand and cups Malfoy’s face, running a thumb slowly back and forth across his cheek. He marvels at the fact that he has quite a bit of control here, could tilt him this way or that, push him away or pull him close. He knows what he _wants_ to do but instinctively he holds back, knowing that Malfoy should be the one to decide what happens next. 

Such as it is, when Malfoy finally does lean in and softly press his lips to Harry’s, it’s overwhelming how much he just _wants_ ; Harry can’t seem to stop the hand on Malfoy’s neck from sliding straight up into his hair ( _so soft!!!_ ) to firmly hold him in place. And Harry just melts into it as Malfoy’s hands move round to the small of his back, slipping under the hem of his jumper to find bare skin and pull him closer. Harry deepens the kiss, testing the pliance of Malfoy’s mouth with his tongue and can’t stop the moan escaping the back of his throat when Malfoy rolls his hips against him, flicking his tongue against Harry’s. 

He’s debating on whether to nibble on Malfoy’s lower lip ( _want to, so perfect, so biteable_ ) when Harry hears three sharp knocks against his office door. Malfoy’s mouth stills then breaks away from Harry’s. He makes no other move to pull away though, he’s still pressed close, fingertips tracing lazy patterns against the base Harry’s spine. 

“Harry mate? We’ve got Shacklebolt’s meeting.” Ron’s voice sounds from the other side of the door. 

Harry turns his head. “Be there in a sec!” He calls back and sighs as he feels Malfoy’s hands loosen their hold. Harry looks back at him, letting the hand in Malfoy’s hair slide round to cup his other cheek. His eyelids flutter closed as he pulls Malfoy in and kisses him once more, holding his face and running his thumbs over the apples of Malfoy’s cheeks, his lips. 

“Later?” Harry asks, and a small kiss is pressed against the rough pad of Harry’s thumb followed by a nod. 

Then he’s pulling Malfoy after him out of the nook and reluctantly letting go before he opens the door. 

It’s awful, the meeting. 

Harry is pressed right up against Malfoy on a high-backed bench in meeting room five because they were some of the last to arrive and there’s limited seating. Malfoy, to his credit and Harry’s immense frustration, looks completely at ease as he crosses one long elegant leg over the other and chats amiably to the wizard on his other side. Ron is squashed in on the end, grumbling about the complimentary buffet. 

When Kingsley calls the meeting to order, Malfoy gives the man his entire focus, doesn’t even react when Harry lets out a bored little huff and slouches as a heated debate starts up between DMLE and Magical Creatures about budget allocation. It’s only when the meeting stretches into its second hour that there’s a sign that Malfoy _might_ be thinking about him. 

Harry’s gaze drops to Malfoy’s hands when there’s a shift beside him, the pressure between their pressed-together arms increasing ever so slightly. Harry doesn’t know why he looks down, but he can see that Malfoy has the cuff of his loaned jumper held between thumb and forefinger and is sort of mindlessly caressing the fabric between his fingertips. It’s oddly fascinating to watch. Malfoy only lets go when his name is called, straightening the cuffs as if he’s wearing a shirt which Harry thinks is sort of funny. 

“Casual Friday is it, Malfoy?” Someone shouts from the crowd. 

“Ah. Yes...that.” He laughs, looking down at Harry’s jumper as he reaches the front of the room. It isn’t his real laugh, Harry notes, and smiles to himself. “I had a slight altercation with Auror Weasley’s caramel macchiato.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “I lost.”

There are good-natured chuckles all around the room and even Ron snorts when people glance at him.

Malfoy’s presentation is brilliant, of course. He’s confident and charming, explains the future developments in the Auror Training Programme like he’s spearheading the entire thing by himself. He even manages to demonstrate a reconstruction of the shielding session from that morning using some truly impressive charmwork that has Harry sat on the edge of his seat. And he was _there_. Malfoy gets a final round of applause and gives a very ostentatious bow which gets another laugh before he’s heading back. 

Ron elbows him sharply, telling him to budge up so Malfoy can sit down. On the end. On the end of the bench as in, not next to Harry anymore. And what else can Harry do but just budge the fuck up? Make a fuss that _he_ wants to sit next to Malfoy? He almost does but Ron is looking at him weird and so he begrudgingly budges up, as requested, trying not to think about how much he misses the hard press of Malfoy’s body against his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos are lovely :)


	4. Notes

It’s like they’re in orbit: whenever Harry is able to get close enough to Malfoy that he can talk to him, someone else is there to whisk him away. Always keeping him just out of Harry’s reach. 

Harry’s proud of him, he really is. That doesn’t stop the selfish part of him from wanting to steal him away back to the nook (or better yet, to Harry’s flat). He keeps a furtive eye on Malfoy, talking to person after person after person. He answers questions, laughs at terrible jokes, looks flattered when he’s flirted with (which happens more than once) before sending them on their way (which pleases Harry, though he can’t blame them, Malfoy is beautiful and brilliant). 

And for every half-second he finds himself alone, Malfoy always glances back at Harry, eyes dark and fierce and full of want. 

Ron is a good distraction.

“These sausage rolls are shit.” 

Harry frowns at him as he still pops one in his mouth, chews slowly and swallows it down with a grimace. 

“Why are you eating them then?”

“Dunno. I think they might be  _ vegan _ .” Ron holds one up, peering at it suspiciously before he nudges Harry with an elbow. “What are you still doing here anyway? You’re not on call are you?” He’s frowning at Harry now, suspicion creeping into his bright blue eyes. “You usually clock off early on training days.”

_ Fuck _ . 

If Harry doesn’t say something, quick, Ron will realise that he genuinely has no reason to still be here. The meeting is over. He can go. But. But he’s here for Malfoy, is the thing. Their first kiss wasn’t what Harry had imagined at all. He’d always thought it would be a bit like them: hard and messy and  _ vicious.  _ But this was - it had been so soft and tender and  _ so fucking lovely _ that it had rather taken him by surprise. It was certainly no less intense than Harry had thought it would be, if anything it was more so (for Harry, at least). 

Ron’s still looking at him. “Mate?”

Fuck. Ron. Right then. 

“Malfoy needs to debrief me.” 

A flush creeps up the back of his neck as he starts to imagine Malfoy quite literally  _ de-briefing _ him as he lies stretched out on his bed; Malfoy sliding off Harry’s underwear and moving up between his legs, running those perfect fingers down Harry’s torso before wrapping them around his hard, dripping cock. 

He almost yelps when the same fingers brush casually against his neck. “Potter.” 

“Malfoy,” he replies.

“Weasley,” adds Ron, poking at a mini quiche with distaste. 

Malfoy circles around him and snatches up one of the sausage rolls from Ron’s plate. “Oh thank Merlin. The buffet has been absolutely decimated.” He bites into it and scowls. “This is revolting.”

“Not quite up to your usual culinary standard, Ferret?” 

Harry bristles a little at the nickname but Malfoy just snorts in response before finishing off the sausage roll. 

“And I suppose this passes for fine dining in your home, Weasel?” 

Ron is laughing as he puts his plate down. “I’ll have you know my  _ boeuf bourguignon _ is the stuff of legend.”

Malfoy quirks an eyebrow, looking faintly impressed. “And your French isn’t completely hideous.”

“You speak French?” Asks Harry, too fast, a prickle of anticipation humming across his skin. 

Malfoy’s focus is on him immediately and the way his mouth curves up is positively wicked. “ _ Ramène moi à la maison ce soir, Harry. _ ”

Of course Harry has no idea what he’s said, he thinks  _ maison _ might be  _ house _ . Doesn’t matter really because it’s a small wonder he hasn’t just come in his pants. Malfoy speaking French is fucking  _ obscene _ . 

Still, because he is arguably the most infuriating person in the wizarding world, Malfoy then turns his attention back to Ron and asks what  _ other _ dishes he likes to make, if he’s particularly interested in  _ french cuisine _ , and has he ever watched a Muggle television programme called  _ Masterchef?  _ All the while Harry is trying to remember what Malfoy said so he can look it up (or ask Hermione). __

They’re walking back to Harry’s office, and it’s weirdly reminiscent of the morning - Malfoy engaged in conversation with someone that isn’t him, while Harry walks sullenly ahead, being ignored. He briefly wonders what happened to the remainder of the peaches while Ron enthuses about learning to make  _ real _ pasta in Italy. 

“That is so fascinating Weasley, please tell me more.”

“Well, actually…” Ron looks mildly sheepish before grinning, “what I’d really love to do is a food tour of Italy. ‘Mione took me to Il Finestra and it was - bloody hell, mate. I could write  _ sonnets  _ about their black truffle butter tortellini.”

Harry’s honestly not sure what is more baffling: that Malfoy is showing an interest in Ron (though Harry’s pretty sure this is just to wind him up) or that Ron just called Malfoy  _ mate _ . He’d laugh if he wasn’t so keen to get Malfoy alone. He makes a big show of unlocking his office, stepping aside to let Malfoy in, trying his level best to look like he really doesn’t have the time to be kept waiting. Like this is all a huge inconvenience to him. Malfoy doesn’t budge. 

“In that case I’d really recommend Pienza in the province of Tuscany.” Malfoy leans against Harry’s door frame and folds his arms, because why the fuck not apparently. It’s not like Harry’s going out of his mind or anything. “Beautiful architecture, of course. But they have a cheese festival in September, though really it’s a wonderful place any time of year. Have you ever had pecorino with honey?”

***

Here’s what happens next: Ron asks Malfoy what a good wine pairing for pecorino is (and since when did Ron start drinking wine?) when the three of them are ambushed by Harry’s supervisor, Senior Auror Kettering. Harry’s always thought Kettering was a bit of a wanker and is proved absolutely right when he completely ignores Malfoy despite being introduced and tells Harry and Ron they’re required for watch-and-wait duty at a location of potential dark wizard activity. The relief team will take over in a few hours (unlikely) and they need to leave immediately. It’s utter rubbish that he and Ron are ‘required’ because it’s Thursday; Kettering is on call but it’s also his Fantasy Quidditch League meetup.

So, Kettering fucks off with an ‘ _ excellent chaps, thanks ever so! _ ’ before they’ve even had a chance to respond. Malfoy recommends a Riesling (white) or a Chianti (red) to Ron and Harry sees he’s already ducked inside the office to fetch his shirt during the Kettering Fob-Off. There’s a shared resigned smile that Ron doesn’t see before the usual “Potter” and “Malfoy” as they step back from each other and go their separate ways. 

Harry finds the note tucked into his Auror robes. 

It’s hastily written and a bit messy, one edge jagged where the paper has been roughly torn out of Malfoy’s notebook. He stares down at it, unable to keep from smiling. Something bright and fluttery unfurling in his chest as his eyes skate over the words left for him.

_ Be safe. Come back to me in one piece. Don’t be an idiot. _

And underneath, an address. 

Harry grins and folds the note carefully, slips it inside his pocket and heads out to meet Ron. 

“We could have a nose about. Kill a bit of time?”

It’s Ron’s suggestion, but Harry can tell his hearts not in it. Maybe he even has his own note. Hermione probably didn’t call him an idiot though. Probably. 

“Nah,” says Harry with a noncommittal shrug, “let’s wait for the relief team.” 

If Ron’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. Just sips his coffee and looks out from their hidden location, watching and waiting for the supposed dark wizard activity. They talk on and off, able to sit in both a companionable silence and get into a heated debate on next season’s Cannons lineup (Ron: ‘this is their year!’, Harry: ‘couldn’t fly their way out of a paper bag’). 

Occasionally Harry’s fingers slip into his jeans pocket, lingering on the carefully folded note inside. He takes it out once when Ron goes to the toilet, like he needs to check the words are still there. 

The relief team shows up just before 11, surprised to see them there. They had expected Kettering. Everyone’s in agreement the guy is a prick and the handover is swift. Back at DMLE, Harry has the fastest shower of his life, definitely no time for an illicit wank (tempting as it is, Malfoy is at the forefront of his mind, but he resists the urge to stroke down his shaft even when he feels it twitch, even to take the edge off; he wants to wait). Ron barely gives him a second glance as he steps into the Floo, calling ‘night Harry!’ and vanishes into the green flames. 

Harry takes the note out, stares down at it and walks out of the atrium. The night air is bracing and he’s grateful for his jacket. London is quiet; it’s not quite the weekend but he has no trouble getting a taxi, climbs in and gives Malfoy’s address. Engaging in small talk about the lamentable state of the British economy helps to distract him from how nervous he feels. 

But then he’s outside of Malfoy’s building, clutching the note in his hand and wondering what to do. Should he have come? Did Malfoy mean for him to come to his home  _ tonight? _ Is it too late? Should he have Floo-called instead? Should he have bought flowers? A bottle of wine? Harry looks up at the building in front of him and feels a bit wobbly. It’s impressive, even the cabbie had let out an approving whistle as they’d pulled up outside.  _ Not as impressive as the man waiting for you in there _ , Harry thinks, looking down at the note again. 

_ Be safe. Come back to me in one piece. Don’t be an idiot. _

Harry punches in the number for Malfoy’s flat, releasing a relieved breath when he hears a crackle from the intercom followed by a very posh and familiar  _ ‘Yes?’ _

“It’s Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pienza is real and I thoroughly recommend it
> 
> Please blame Google Translate for Malfoy’s comment in French 
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are lovely :)


	5. All The Ways I Want You

There’s a lift that takes Harry up to Malfoy’s flat which is on the top floor, because of course it is. He feels like his entire body is thrumming with anticipation as he steps in and it crosses his mind that maybe he should come up with some sort of plan. 

  1. Be a fucking gentleman. “I want your arse”, though to the point, was hardly the stuff of romance. And yes, alright, it did lead to a reciprocation of interest and flirting and ear nibbling which ultimately led to the (glorious) kissing and holding and touching and the promise of _later_. Without all of which Harry wouldn’t be here now, feeling all fucking _fluttery_
  2. Ask him out for dinner. And not the _Potter Special_. A real date. Make his intentions clear. Woo Malfoy’s pants off properly (metaphorically speaking, of course) (and, hopefully, literally)
  3. Kiss him again



Fuck he really hopes he can kiss him again. _Should_ that be part of the plan? And will it be like before? Malfoy close and warm and wrapped around him, his lips full and pliant sliding against Harry’s. The memory of it does nothing to calm his nerves which only seem to amplify as the doors open and he sees Malfoy standing there waiting for him. He’s still wearing Harry’s red jumper and a small soft smile that tugs at Harry’s heart.

For a moment neither of them move. Then Harry stalks forward out of the lift and Malfoy is on him before the doors ding shut. 

It’s not like before.

It’s frantic and intense and just on the edge of violent. Malfoy catches Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth, bites hard enough that Harry moans, opens his mouth more, Malfoy’s tongue coming up to tangle with his. Harry’s hands slide round Malfoy’s waist to pull him in tight and Harry kisses him harder, his lips and tongue building to a heady cadence. 

Malfoy’s hips roll against his and Harry moves his hands down to grip the curve of his arse and holy fucking hellfire it’s delicious. Harry’s not sure he ever wants to let go and thinks about staying exactly where they are, hands firm and steady on Malfoy’s perfect arse as they rub up against each other, desperate and needy in the hallway until they both come. He can feel how hard Malfoy is against him and there’s definitely no hiding his own arousal. 

But. 

No. Harry wants this to last, wants to keep him as long as he possibly can. 

Harry breaks their kiss, breathing hard, tonguing at the spot where Malfoy bit him. He tastes copper. 

“Mm, sorry about that,” Malfoy says, smirking.

Harry huffs out a laugh. “No you’re fucking not.” 

“You’re right I’m not.” Malfoy’s hand is on his jaw, his thumb skating softly over Harry’s lip. 

Harry kisses it and smiles. “Are you going to invite me in? Or are we putting on a show for your neighbours?” 

Malfoy makes an amused sound. “You’d be surprised how many of them would be into that.” 

“That’s horrify-“

But Malfoy catches Harry’s mouth back up into a kiss, licks tentatively at the tender spot on Harry’s lip and starts to pull him forward.

It’s awkward, clinging to each other as much as possible as they stumble along, neither one willing to break apart for the sake of a few feet to get inside Malfoy’s flat. It’s only when Harry hears a door kicked shut and something solid pressed against his back that he even realises they’ve made it in. Malfoy’s hands are working at the buttons of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders and Harry reluctantly lets go of him so he can shrug it off, fling it aside.

Harry’s pinned against the door and Malfoy is leaning into him; kissing down Harry’s jawline, nuzzling into his neck, licking and kissing and gently biting. Harry slides a hand up into Malfoy’s hair; he means to grip it, to keep Malfoy’s head in place but it’s so bloody soft and touchable he just runs his hand through the fine, white-blond strands, wondering what kind of shampoo Malfoy uses, what it smells like. He angles his head slightly and inhales. 

Grapefruit and mint. 

Harry lets his head _thunk_ back against the door and just lets himself get lost in the feeling of Malfoy all around him; the hard press of his body against Harry’s, warm and solid and lovely, Malfoy’s hair between his fingers, Malfoy’s mouth on his throat. Malfoy nudging between his thighs, rolling his hips again and again, harder and harder. 

The pressure building at the base of his spine is too familiar and his hands fly to Malfoy’s hips, slowing him down but not pushing him away; Harry’s cock is achingly hard in his jeans and every drag and press against Malfoy makes him shiver with need. 

He’s going to come. He’s going to come in his pants like a horny teenager. And somewhere the tiny, rational part of his brain that’s hanging on for dear life is shouting _The Plan! The Plan!_ Somewhere between seeing Malfoy still in his red jumper and groping Malfoy’s arse the plan has veered slightly off course. 

_“DracoMalfoyWillYouHaveDinnerWithMe?”_ Harry gasps out, a little frantic. 

And he can definitely feel Malfoy smiling against his skin, can hear the quiet, pleased sound Harry’s words have elicited. Malfoy backs off just enough that Harry lets out an embarrassingly loud whimper at the loss of him. He fists his hands in the red jumper so Malfoy knows not to back off any further.

Malfoy places his hands on the door either side of Harry’s head, his arms boxing him in. “You’re asking me out on a date?” he asks, planting a chaste kiss on Harry’s lips. 

Harry nods, perhaps more vigorously than necessary. “Yes,” he grits on, when Malfoy presses against him and fuck, he feels so bloody good. 

Malfoy kisses along his jaw, teeth grazing the skin. “ _The Potter Special?_ ” he murmurs, his mouth at Harry’s ear. 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Oh for fucks sa– _mmph!_ ” 

Malfoy’s kissing him, slow and deep and Harry just melts into it. Malfoy’s hands slide down to Harry’s shoulders, briefly, before they’re cupping his face; his thumbs caressing Harry’s cheeks as his tongue sweeps inside Harry’s mouth. When they part, Malfoy stays close, resting his forehead against Harry’s. 

This close, Harry can see the faintest smattering of freckles across the bridge of Malfoy’s nose. Fucking hell, how has he never noticed _those_ before? He wants to kiss them. Would that be weird? 

_Does he have freckles anywhere else?_

Harry really needs to know. 

“Say yes,” Harry says.

Malfoy bites his lip, a small tugging at the corners of his mouth as he releases it. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Whatever gets you to say yes.” Harry grins, feeling thoroughly charming as Malfoy laughs (his real laugh, Harry knows it) and kisses him again. 

“Fine. _Yes_ then.” Malfoy sighs in mock-surrender. “How was the watch-and-wait?”

“Boring,” says Harry, sliding his hands around to Malfoy’s back, pulling him in tight. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this.” Harry swallows, feeling nervous. “Us.”

“Well,” says Malfoy, licking his lips, his voice slightly unsteady, “that doesn’t sound boring at all.” He’s letting himself be pulled in, his arms wrapping behind Harry’s neck. There’s virtually no space left between them now. “What, exactly, did you think about?”

“All the ways I want you,” Harry says, “all the ways I could have you.”

*

It doesn’t take long to get to Malfoy’s bedroom. Seconds maybe, Harry isn’t sure. It’s entirely possible they apparated. The room is cast in the warm glow of a bedside lamp. The bed is huge and pleasingly solid-looking with more pillows than one person needs. _About the right amount for two people_ , Harry thinks, walking Malfoy backwards towards the bed. 

Harry lowers his hands to Malfoy’s arse again, hooks an ankle around his calf and rolls his hips. He tries not to grin too much when Malfoy wobbles a bit against all three movements because he does it again, with more gusto, and then Malfoy’s on his back on the bed looking a bit startled as to how he got there. Harry surges over him, legs clamping either side of Malfoy’s hips and wrapping his hands around his wrists, pinning them to the bed. 

“Was that an Auror move? Seems a bit overtly sexual for DMLE.” Malfoy struggles against him experimentally before giving himself over to Harry’s control. “Well this hardly seems fair, Potter.” He doesn’t look at all disgruntled by the chain of events. 

Harry leans down and places the sweetest, softest kiss he possibly can on Malfoy’s lips. “Bold of you to assume I play fair, Malfoy.” Harry releases his wrists and sits up, still straddling him and feeling deeply gratified that Malfoy keeps his hands exactly where they are.

Harry slowly pushes up the hem of the red jumper, exposing Malfoy’s torso. “I love that you wore this. Loved seeing you in something that’s _mine_.” He doesn't miss the way Malfoy’s mouth curves up into a wicked little smirk. He trails his fingertips over perfect, pale skin; Harry just wants to touch him _everywhere_. “Drove me mad in that meeting though.” His palm slides up Malfoy’s side, over his ribs, up to his chest. 

Harry barely touches a nipple with the pad of his thumb when he hears a sharp intake of breath from underneath him. He locks eyes with Malfoy and runs his thumb over the nipple again, circling around it with slow, careful consideration. Malfoy’s whole body seems to mutinously arch into Harry’s touch and he flushes, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. 

Harry leans down and kisses him, long and lingering and sweet, but doesn’t stop stroking around his nipple, doesn’t stop when Malfoy starts making breathy little moans against his mouth. Harry decides he wants to hear _more of that please_ , so he shimmies down and - still stroking and teasing - flicks his tongue over the other nipple. Malfoy’s hands fly up to his face and he bites down on a knuckle to stifle a moan. 

Harry looks up, tugs Malfoy’s hands away from his face with a shake of his head, _no_. “I want to hear you.”

Underneath him, Malfoy stares wide-eyed like Harry has asked him to do something completely impossible, but he nods and dutifully places his hands back where they were, fingers twitching like they want to reach out but can’t. 

And _oh_ , Harry really likes that. 

He resumes with a little more vigour, swirling his tongue around the small pink bud before closing his mouth over it, sucking gently while his thumb and forefinger continues with the other and _fucking hell_ the noises Malfoy is making. Harry wonders if he could make Malfoy come just from this; it certainly feels like he could every time Malfoy arches up, his erection desperately seeking some kind of contact or relief. 

Malfoy’s nipple is slick where Harry’s worked it over; he runs a finger around it thoughtfully before giving the same attention to the other until it’s just as pink and peaked as the first. 

He’s met with a contraction of muscles as he licks at Malfoy’s stomach, and follows it up with his lips and teeth, travelling across Malfoy’s pale abdomen with gentle biting kisses. Harry’s half off the bed when he reaches the waistband of Malfoy’s trousers, nipping at the skin just above as he considers what to do. 

With a flourish of his hand, he wandlessly vanishes Malfoy’s trousers and underwear. 

Malfoy snorts. “I bloody _knew_ you vanished the pea – _fuck!”_

Harry takes Malfoy’s cock deep into his mouth and pulls off torturously slow. Harry feels a shift on the bed and looks up; Malfoy has propped himself up, eyes unyielding as he licks his lips, watching Harry take his cock deep into the wet heat of his mouth. Harry pulls off, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving Malfoy’s. 

Harry takes his time. He licks at the slit and under the head, strokes Malfoy’s length with his fingers and presses light, fluttery kisses to Malfoy’s hip bones and the insides of his thighs, nuzzles the blond curls at the base of his cock, breathing him in. Harry runs the tip of his tongue over the leaking end, then he’s swirling his tongue and sucking lightly on the throbbing head of Malfoy’s cock, the precome salty-bitter on his taste buds. 

Above him, Malfoy’s voice is rough. “You’re so-“ 

Harry doesn’t hear what he is, just hears a low guttural sound as he wraps his mouth around Malfoy’s cock and takes in as much of him as he can, loving the weight of it on his tongue, the feel of the head butting against his throat. He feels rather than sees Malfoy yank off the red jumper and flop back onto the bed, hears him release a shaky sigh as Harry starts to suck in earnest, hollowing his cheeks and curling his tongue around the head of Malfoy’s cock whenever he draws back. When he hears the tempo switch of Malfoy’s breathing he goes as deep as he keen, feeling inexplicably harder when Malfoy’s hips twitch and he fucks up into Harry’s mouth. Harry moans at the feeling, sucks harder, encouraging Malfoy to do it again. And again. And again.

Malfoy’s release is hot against the back of his throat and Harry swallows all of it down, caressing Malfoy’s hip gently with his fingers through his orgasm. 

When Harry props himself up, his eyes widen as he sees Malfoy in all his naked, post-orgasmic glory. His head is turned away slightly; deep, calming breaths coming from his open mouth, bottom lip plump and pink and wet where he’s been biting it. His hair is...well, it’s a wonderful sex-mess really. Malfoy’s fingers are curled loosely near his head against the bedcovers, like he’s been grabbing at the soft blond strands while Harry made him come. It’s sticking out every which way and there’s one lock of hair that curls adorably at his temple. 

Harry strokes it back with affection. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I could come just looking at you.” 

Malfoy’s eyes flutter open, dark and intense and...uncertain. Did Harry say too much? But then Harry stops thinking at all when he’s pulled in for a hard, bruising kiss; Malfoy’s tongue swirling in Harry’s mouth, hand fisted tightly in his hair. _He_ must _be able to taste himself_ , Harry thinks, the thought sending a zing of pleasure directly to his cock, _Christ he’s the sexiest man alive._

When he releases Harry, the uncertainty has vanished and Malfoy gives him a once-over, arching a perfect blond eyebrow. “And _you_ seem to be overdressed.” It’s true; Harry’s only lost his jacket. He hasn’t even taken his boots off yet. “ _Strip,_ ” Malfoy orders. 

Harry does. Malfoy watches him, sitting upright on the edge of his bed, long legs dangling. This, more than anything else they’ve done so far, feels the most intimate and Harry can feel his face warm, feeling shy. Still, he’s rather pleased to see Malfoy’s cock start to fill out again when he’s down to just his underwear. He hooks his thumbs over the waistband before Malfoy stops him. 

“Wait,” he says, reaching out for Harry. “Come here.”

Harry settles his palms on Malfoy’s thighs either side of him, runs his palms up and down the taut muscle, the fine hair there soft against his skin as his boxers are slipped off; his furiously red prick springs free and he instinctively lifts a hand towards it, but Malfoy bats him away, wrapping his pale fingers firmly around the shaft, stroking him excruciatingly slowly. 

He runs his fingertips over Malfoy’s shoulders, back across his collarbones and down his chest; Harry grazes a nipple, watching for Malfoy’s reaction and releases a sharp breath when his cock is gripped tighter, precome leaking from the end. 

“Fuck _me_ ,” Harry mutters under his breath, watching his cock slide slowly in and out of Malfoy’s fist. 

Malfoy hums thoughtfully, “Maybe next time. I think though, for tonight, I’d prefer _you_ to fuck _me_.”

Harry might’ve stopped breathing because part of his brain is thinking _I’m going to fuck Draco Malfoy_ and another part is chanting _nexttimenexttimenexttime!_ Harry nods vehemently. 

Malfoy presses a kiss to his lips. “Good.”

*

Harry’s placing one of Malfoy’s many pillows in the middle of the bed and desperately trying not to touch his cock when Malfoy returns from his bathroom. He presses a small vial of lube into Harry’s hand and shifts back onto the bed. 

Harry reaches out to stop him, pushing encouragingly on Malfoy’s hip. “On your front.” Malfoy’s eyes widen slightly when he sees Harry toss the vial onto the bed, so Harry kisses him. “Please?” 

_Don’t come yet, don’t come yet_ , Harry thinks. He’s kneeling between Malfoy’s thighs, edging his legs slightly further apart with his knees, the length of his cock pressing and rubbing against the crease of Malfoy’s arse as Harry leans over him. He kisses and licks his way down Malfoy’s spine, but every shuddery sigh seems to make Harry inexplicably harder. Harry grips himself at the base of his cock, taking a deep breath as his urge to come subsides to the point where he can _mostly_ think. 

When Harry nuzzles into the crease of his arse, he murmurs a charm and Malfoy flinches against him, relaxing again when Harry presses his lips to the base of his spine, his tongue dipping teasingly lower. 

“Is this okay?” he asks. 

“Fuck, Harry. _Yes_ ,” says Malfoy, seemingly in one breath.

As if Harry needs further encouragement, Malfoy spreads his legs a little wider, angling his hips to push his arse up towards him. 

Harry’s hands reach out of their own volition and start rubbing slowly at Malfoy’s cheeks, squeezing and massaging, his thumbs working their way inwards to spread them slightly apart.

When Harry licks a long line up and over the tiny, puckered hole Malfoy lets out a sound that is something like a whimper and groan. Harry grins and licks firmer, focusing his tongue back and forth and around Malfoy’s entrance, teasing in circles that has him shuddering. 

Harry points his tongue and works at the hole, rosy pink and tiny, pushing firm and eager to open him up. When his tongue presses inside, Malfoy presses back, seeking more of him and Harry feels dizzy with it; fucking into Malfoy with his tongue, the taste and feel of him, Malfoy murmuring things like _fuck_ and _yes_ and _more_ and _HarryHarryHarry_ around gasps and moans of undeniable pleasure. 

Malfoy’s breathing sounds ragged and broken and he snakes a hand towards his cock before Harry pulls it away and lifts his head. “Not yet.” Malfoy grumbles something incoherent into the duvet that sounds suspiciously like a combination of French expletives and frustration; Harry smirks, massaging around Malfoy’s hole with the tip of his index finger before sliding it in, slow and gentle up to the knuckle. 

Malfoy sighs shakily with it. “More,” he says, after a beat. 

Instead, there’s more French swearing when Harry replaces his finger with his tongue, pressing in harder, licking and sucking mercilessly until Malfoy is trembling with it, little gasping moans escaping on each inhalation of breath. 

_“Please Harry, please, please…”_

Harry licks his way back up to the base of Malfoy’s spine, presses an impossibly affectionate kiss there as he nudges for him to roll back over. He does so, and Harry can see that _Christ_ Malfoy is _wrecked_ ; he’s flushed and pink and lovely, a sheet of sweat covering his entire body, grey eyes glaring up at him dark and wild and there’s something almost feral in there too, like he could absolutely kill Harry if he doesn’t fuck him right now. Malfoy reaches for his own cock again, impossibly hard and leaking precome over his stomach. Harry licks it off, grabs Malfoy’s hands and pins them down by his head, giving his wrists a gentle squeeze.

“Behave yourself now,” Harry says, but then he’s reaching between them and wrapping his fingers firmly around the base of Malfoy’s cock. 

Malfoy releases a long shaky breath, blinking at the ceiling before he looks at Harry, freckles stark on his pale features.

Those fucking freckles, they’re going to be the death of him. 

“Better?” Harry asks. 

“Yeah,” whispers Malfoy, his free hand coming up to Harry’s cheek. 

Harry leans into it, angles his head to press his lips to Malfoy’s palm before reaching up to give it a quick squeeze and then he’s leaning back onto his heels between Malfoy’s thighs, retrieving the lube. 

Harry finds Malfoy’s prostate once he’s got two fingers opening him up and he relentlessly brushes over the bundle of nerves as he pulls out and pushes back in. After Harry had released his wrists, Malfoy had stretched his arms above his head, hanging them over the edge of the bed and Harry nearly came at the sight of him; the long lines of his exquisite body practically offered up to him like a gift. He’s kept this position and bears down on Harry’s fingers every time he thrusts back in, the only sounds above the slick-sucking sounds of Harry’s fingers are Malfoy’s groans and Harry’s heavy breathing. 

Harry’s barely introduced a third finger when Malfoy sharply says “ _enough_.”

“You don’t want…?” Harry’s voice is rough with arousal.

Even around his fingers Malfoy is still tight and Harry’s not being egotistical but he’s not exactly _small_ in the cock-department; which of course Malfoy already knows because he was openly ogling it when Harry stripped off. It was brilliant. 

Malfoy shakes his head. “Just want you. So much.” 

Harry gently removes his fingers and shifts closer, wrapping a hand around his cock, stroking a layer of lube up his shaft. He presses the head against Malfoy’s entrance, bends at the hip so he’s leaning over Malfoy and propping himself up so he can kiss him, so sweet, so soft. 

“You’re sure?” Harry doesn’t know why he asks it, what he really means by it until Malfoy answers him. 

“I’m so fucking sure about you, Harry.”

And Harry feels like his heart is going to explode with the way Malfoy is looking up at him; so wide-eyed and open, vulnerable with what he’s said, fierce in his conviction. He watches Malfoy’s face as he pushes past the tight ring of muscle, brushes a kiss against his forehead and nuzzles into his hair when Malfoy’s eyelids start to flutter as he pushes, slow and deep, until Harry’s completely buried in him. 

And Malfoy’s so tight and hot and beautiful around his cock that Harry sort of wants to stay there until he remembers that he needs to _move_. He pulls back and thrusts back in, shallow and gentle, feeling Malfoy clench and relax around him. 

“Keep going,” Malfoy whispers, curling a leg around Harry’s waist and urging him on. Harry leans down and kisses him again, nips at Malfoy’s lip. 

“That’s for before,” he says, and grins when Malfoy huffs out a surprised chuckle. 

Harry pitches his hips back and forth, gentle until Malfoy starts to move with him, moaning on each of Harry’s slow thrusts, pushing back against him. 

“More,” Malfoy gasps, his hand wrapping around his own cock and stroking up. “Harder.”

And Harry can’t hold back, he fucks Malfoy hard like he’s wanted to for - fuck it, months. He’s wanted this, _him_ , for months. Longer. Malfoy meets him with every thrust until they quickly find a rhythm and Malfoy’s hand works his cock, up and down, in time as Harry fucks deep into him. 

When Harry lifts Malfoy higher off the pillow it changes the angle of his cock and hits Malfoy’s prostate, causing the release high-pitched whine-sob from underneath him that alarms Harry for a moment, has him take down the tempo. _“Shit are you okay?!”_

“Don’t you dare – fucking – stop – Ah! Right there – Potter!” Malfoy gaps out on each thrust. 

So Harry doesn’t stop. Doesn’t stop until Malfoy clenches around him, coming all over his stomach and his fist and shouting Harry’s name. 

“I’m– I need to– Malf– _Draco. Draco fuck, I want_ – “ That’s all Harry gets out before Malfoy – Draco – is clenching around him again and Harry’s coming, white noise filling his ears as Draco rides him through his orgasm. He’s shaky with it, taking a minute to blink back to reality; he’s breathing hard, his skin warm and shiny with sweat. 

“That was– You’re so–” Harry doesn’t have the words, just lets himself list sideways, sliding out of Draco awkwardly and pulling him into his arms. “Come here.”

They lie like that for a long time, Draco curled up in Harry’s arms, head tucked under Harry’s chin, pressing little fluttery-soft kisses to Harry’s throat; when Harry feels the tingling coolness of a cleaning charm wash over his body, he pulls back from a grumbly Draco and peers at him curiously. 

“Wandless?” Harry asks. 

Draco rolls his eyes. “Not all of us need to wave our hand about like we’re the Queen of bloody England.” 

“I don’t– “ Draco silences his protest with a kiss, moving his lips slow and soft, before nudging Harry up the bed and under the covers. “Hush now, bedtime.”

There are more freckles on the back of Draco’s neck. 

Harry discovers them in the early hours of the morning, his chest flush against Draco’s back, arm curled protectively around Draco’s lithe torso. They’re so faint Harry almost misses them, creeping up into the blond hair at the nape of his neck. Harry nuzzles into them, smiling against Draco’s skin as he lets out a contented little sigh and falls back asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments are lovely :)

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos and comments are lovely!


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